Other Poems

Happy Birthday Barbara McOwen
Without Barbara, there would be no Scottish fiddling in Boston - they'd all play irish! For the last 20 years she has tirelessly promoted the wonders of the Strathspay etc. Here she is (with Anne Hooper on her right) playing air fiddle on the way to her wonderful Fiddle Camp at Thompson Island which me and the fam damily attend every year.

On the celebration of her Birthday at a Scottish dance retreat in Cardigan Mountain at which she gets the fiddling going for the dancers, I gave her the cheapest present a Scotsman can send - something you make up in yer heid!

To Barbara McOwen,
I have a short poem
A birthday gift just for you.
Years seem to fly past,
Like reels played too fast
We’re so glad to have played some with you!

Barbara McOwen,
Your age is not showin’
You are still as bright as a button.
Your playings so nifty,
As you flirt with 50
(We gave you the first 10 bars for nothin’!)

Now Robert McOwen
Just got off the phone
There are fiddlers calling to Praise ye.
Angus Grant says ‘Helloooo’,
and Haunnece toooo,
And a text message from Alisdair Frazier.

Its Barbara McOwen
They are proud to be knowin’,
The dancers all rate you the best.
There’s a big card from Lance,
Signed ‘The Boston Branch
Of the RSCDS.

At the Games up in Loon,
if they’ve booked the McOwen
It’ll be a grand ball you know.
As she takes her place,
Opens her fiddle case
And starts slowly to rosin her bow.

For without the McOwens,
The evening is goin’
To be a dull dance, without sound
Of the fiddle being played,
dancers,  I’m afraid
You just look like you’re jumpin’ around!

Och, when Babs plays a waltz,
She can turn on the schmaltz
And the dancers get love eyes of Cupid.
But without her tune,
You’d find, rather soon
They’d just all sway around looking stupid!

But fiddle need feet,
Just as feet needs the fiddle -
It’s a great partnership on the floor.
That’s why Cardigan Mountain,
Is such a great outin’
But for that we must thank Lance Ramshaw!

A big thanks is owin’,
From Bruce Mabbot, renown
For his partners, domestic and foreign.
To Barbara’s sweet sound,
He just twirls them around
Till they’re eating right out of his sporran!

Accolades a’glowin’,
I must end this poem,
A sincere thanks for all that you do
Of high praise you are worthy,
As we sing Happy Birthday,
Dear Barbara, Happy Birthday to You!